


Banana Pancakes

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, I'm hungry now.., M/M, Oneshot, Romance, lazy evening, no really this is cavity-inducing, sherlock bakes!, what happens when I need to cheer myself up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on a prompt by 1butterfly_grl1</p><p>It was a little known secret in Baker Street that despite Sherlock's reluctance to admit it, he was in fact, a fairly talented cook. John after all, hadn't exactly encouraged the detective's culinary skills when he first moved into 221 B. What with eyeballs constantly having to be removed from the microwave, dog hair clippings being kept in the loo, and milk often smelling foul and curdled, the ex-army doctor privately thought he could be forgiven for being a little, well, sceptical of the idea of giving Sherlock free reign of the kitchen.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Banana Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1butterfly_grl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1/gifts).



> so.... I have had.... a week...... and really just needed to cheer myself up and take a break from my main stories. so I decided to fill some prompts.... 
> 
> thanks to butterfly for the prompt! though I think it was meant to be smutty, it more turned into fluff. *shrugs* I tried. I also may have been listening to the song "banana pancakes" by jack johnson....
> 
> Prompt: I could frost a cake with the dark chocolate velvet of Sherlock's voice.

 

 

 

It was a little known secret in Baker Street that despite Sherlock's reluctance to admit it, he was in fact, a fairly talented cook. John after all, hadn't exactly encouraged the detective's culinary skills when he first moved into _**221 B.**_ What with eyeballs constantly having to be removed from the microwave, dog hair clippings being kept in the loo, and milk often smelling foul and curdled, the ex-army doctor privately thought he could be forgiven for being a little, well, _sceptical_ of the idea of giving Sherlock free reign of the kitchen.

 

In fact, the first time he had come home to the detective wrapped in one of Mrs. Hudson's ridiculously pink aprons, he thought he might have been hallucinating.

 

He stood in the doorway, frozen as he watched the enigmatic figure all but waltz over to the fridge, mixing what looked to dark chocolate and cream in a metallic bowl with a whisk. Those spindly fingers seemed to deftly balance both bowl and whisk in one hand with little effort as they opened the fridge, pulling out the jug of milk and sniffing at it once to make sure it hadn't been used for mold experiments. Seeming satisfied, the pale ghost of a man set it on the counter, turning to eye John critically as if he just noticed him. Those bright blue eyes swept over his frame in something akin to amusement.

 

“Are you just going to stand there all day gaping like a peasant or are you going to sit down? Your leg's obviously been bothering you today, it can't be comfortable leaning against the wall like that.”

 

The dry tone of his partner's voice snapped John from his contemplation of calling Mycroft and demanding who had drugged Sherlock into cooking sweets, because that's what was obviously what's happening in front of him. As He shuffled forward to the table to take a seat, he glanced at the recipe that lay atop the wooden surface.

 

_Chocolate Banana Pancakes._

 

He immediately noticed that Sherlock didn't bother to even glance at the piece of paper as he effortlessly mixed together the wet ingredients into a bowl, measuring each cup precisely and not bothering to explain to John what had compelled him to make pancakes for dinner. Or what had made him want to make dinner at all.

Having an eidetic memory seemed to be good for cooking.

 

As if sensing the doctor's gaze upon him, the detective turned, dark curls moving with his twirl of hips. They glinted softly in the dim light from the window, where rain steadily drizzled outside. It had been raining a lot lately, not unusual for London. John had grown used to being more wet than dry lately on his commute to work. Now however, he felt decidedly warm and just a little bit sleepy, the stove already set to preheat and its energy filling the kitchen with a glow. He leant his head against his elbows, glancing up at this strange version of Sherlock Holmes, trying not to sound too jaded or suspicious as he murmured

 

“What did you break?”

 

His boyfriend snorted, rolling his eyes. The act was slightly less intimidating than usual, given the fact that he was currently chopping bananas into a separate bowl while wearing a pastel-pink apron. Not that John usually found it particularly terrifying to begin with. He had become rather immune to the Holmesian look of annoyance.

 

“I didn't break anything John, _nor_ did I poison something, put body parts in strange places, _or_ do anything that I know for a fact would irritate you. I. am. Making. Pancakes. That is all. I didn't know I would be interrogated for such a terrible act.”

 

Though his words were sharp, there was a faint twisting to his lips, softening the cutting edge of the retort. John couldn't help but feel a little guilty of directly assuming, but he had learned over time that assumptions with Sherlock could save lives in the heat of the moment, and so he apologised by deliberately taking the man for his word. After all, he didn't see anything out of order (besides one cooking detective).

 

“I didn't know you could bake.”

 

An absent-sounding hum is the reply he gets, the detective's impossibly long frame twisting itself to reach the even taller cupboard up above his head. John had to use a stool to reach that shelf, he tried not to let that get to him even as he watched Sherlock smile triumphantly at a jar of nutmeg.

 

“Simple chemistry, John. Just like mixing chemicals together. If you know what you're doing, then you can't possibly mess it up.”

 

John raised an eyebrow.

“The numerous explosions you've caused in the flat before this beg to differ.”

 

His partner didn't bother to deign that with a reply, pouring the now dark-brown liquid into the pan. It sizzled, a sweet smell filling the kitchen, fruity and chocolatey. John's stomach grumbled involuntarily.

 

“What's the occasion then?”

 

“Do I _need_ one?”

 

John thought about it for a moment, then answered with a resounding

“Actually, yeah. Being you.”

 

Sherlock smirked, the expression crooked and lopsided for a moment before he feigned indifference.

“Experiment.”

 

He picked up a slice of banana he'd missed, the way he murmured _experiment_ sounding as dark and sinful as chocolate frosting. John swallowed slightly, suddenly a little more focused as the detective slipped out of the awful pink apron. Underneath was an outfit that both men were aware suited him, his dark purple shirt the colour of twilight, and coal-black trousers that made his pale skin luminescent. Realizing that he may have unwittingly walked into one of his lover's schemes, John did his best not to fixate on the detective's fingers as they brought the slice of banana to his lips, chewing thoughtfully.

 

It occurred to him that he hadn't really gotten to spend an evening with Sherlock alone in a long while. The shift work had grown at the hospital, allergy season wreaking havoc on London's citizens and leaving John to face hordes of runny noses and hives. As well, the detective hadn't had a case to ferret John away to see in a while, being forced to take cold-cases from Lestrade until a decent murder could make its way to the Yard's notice. How long had it been since they had both fallen asleep together at the same time?

How long had it been since they had indulged in more than just the briefest kisses goodbye?

 

John found he couldn't recall. What's more he found he was equally aroused and somewhat sleepy, his nightmares having also kept him awake the past month or so, the anniversary of when he got shot an unspoken date in the calendar. Frankly, he was surprised Sherlock hadn't kicked him out of bed yet, what with his thrashing and screaming. It didn't happen as often any more true, but it still had to be a nuisance. Looking at the man before him, it occurred to John that though Sherlock liked to pretend he was rather detached and unfeeling, only he could take one look at his partner and deduce that John's favourite combination for a dessert was chocolate and banana.

 

He was really quite thoughtful at times, when he could be bothered to stop the front of acting like a heartless sociopath.

 

He kept his voice surprisingly steady as he realised all of this, a small smile breaking out on his face as a flush warmed his cheeks.

 

“You great git. _Come here._ ”

 

And John thought that maybe all of this wasn't a completely unselfish action on his lover's part, as he stood and wrapped Sherlock in a hug and he felt the detective lean into his touch greedily. It turned out, his partner had been feeling somewhat lonely and overworked as well.

 

Sherlock's voice could frost a cake, it was as rich as velvet and just as sweet as it brushed along John's ear. And though it wasn't the weekend and they couldn't spend the entire rest of the evening in bed like they both desired, John felt that life couldn't be more perfect as the detective murmured

 

“ _Bed?”_

 

And John replied after he pulled away to turn off the stove for later.

 

“Bed.”

 


End file.
